


in somnis veritas

by jjjat3am



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:09:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1881108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/jjjat3am
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve suffers from reoccurring nightmares. He doesn't quite manage to hide them from Sam and in the process discovers that Sam has some issues of his own.</p><p>A story about finding family, asking for help and the first steps to recovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in somnis veritas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollyhawke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyhawke/gifts).



> Written for the lovely [margaretrogers](http://margaretrogers.tumblr.com/) who asked for found families and taking care of each other. Somehow this turned into me being fixated on recovery fic. I'm hoping I don't hit the things on your peeve list because when I read it I agreed with all of them. I'm also hoping that you won't find this account too romanticized. I wanted to make it clear that recovery takes a lot more than just a hug and a visit to a therapist. It's an ongoing process that both Steve and Sam are barely starting. Hopefully I succeeded.

 

_Sometimes, Steve dreams of drowning in icy water, body trashing helplessly as the water fills his lungs. He remembers the ice, how it crept into his blood and how his body had shut down, giving up. He dreams about how the world had gone muted, shapes indistinguishable in the water, how quiet it was, save for the frantic beating of his heart in his ears._

_Eventually even that went away, leaving room for only silence and the aching cold._

_He usually wakes up from those cold and shivering, searching for another blanket, his handlers never thought to leave for him in his shiny new apartment._

_*_

The silence is broken by the steady beeping of the machines mingling with unfamiliar music. Steve opens his eyes, and for a moment everything is blurry and his heartbeat jumps, but then it clears, and he can see Sam by his bedside, half-asleep over his book, soot marks still visible on his cheek.

 

“On your left.” he croaks out and Sam looks up, wide-eyed.

 

Sam smiles and curls his fingers gently around Steve’s hand, and all Steve feels is warmth.

 

*

 

_Sometimes, Steve dreams about Bucky._

_He dreams about the grating screech of the metal bar as it gave way under a human weight, about the blinding whiteness of the snow-covered abyss and Bucky’s falling silhouette. He sees the fear in his eyes, the shocked acceptance of his fall, right before the dream gives way to those same blue-eyes, blanked of emotion by the years and Hydra’s Scientific Division._

_He wakes up from those dreams soaked with sweat and screaming, and doesn’t fall asleep again, shaking under the covers til morning._

_*_

All the travelling they’re doing isn’t helping him ease out of the nightmares. The beds may be harder in cheap motel rooms, but the ever-changing scenery gives him vertigo and reminds him of the war, even if the sprawling highways of Middle America have little in common with the rolling hills of North Italy.

 

The amount of Hydra agents they encounter has them both on edge and ready to lash out, which is why Sam occasionally insists they stop at an old-style diner manned by a matronly waitress, who calls them both darling and insists on bringing them extra pie.

 

However, Steve can’t ignore the fact that every lead they’d had so far had turned out to be a bust. Every empty warehouse makes the dreams worse and every bruise Sam gets fighting beside him makes for another sleepless hour.

 

It became clear to him very early on that there was going to be no way to hide the nightmares from Sam, living on top of each other the way they were. Still, for a while Steve did okay, instinctively muffling the scream trying to escape, rolling out of bed and into the bathroom to splash some water on his face. Sometimes, he returned to bed, only to toss fitfully for the rest of the night or he put on some tracksuit pants to go running till morning. Sam never said anything about the dark circles under his eyes or the bagels obviously straight out the oven, but from time to time Steve caught him watching, an unfathomable look on his face.

 

It all comes to a head one night, when they return from eliminating yet another Hydra cell and realize that they’d exhausted every piece of information Natasha was able to get them, before disappearing into deep cover somewhere in Europe.

 

They’re exhausted and frustrated, and it’s not long until Steve snaps at Sam over something that’ll probably be forgotten tomorrow, but leaves them sullen and silent as they ready for bed.

 

Steve falls asleep looking at the pile of useless files and the tense line of Sam’s back, curled up in the other bed.

_‘the steady drone of the train under his body, Bucky’s outstretched hand, Bucky falling…falling…’_

He wakes up to someone screaming Bucky’s name. It takes him a moment to realize that that someone is him and he tries to cover his mouth with his hand, but they’re clenched into fists in the covers, so he clamps his lips closed and almost bites through his tongue. What he’d mistaken for the thrum of the train against his body, is actually someone shaking his shoulder gently and he moves almost instinctively towards the body next to him on the bed, pressing his wet face against a cloth covered thigh and desperately trying to control his erratic breathing.

 

It takes a few minutes, until he’s finally calm enough to painfully uncurl his clenched fists and a few more, until his body relaxes enough to feel the soft touch against his shoulder. He stays where he is, pressed against Sam’s thigh, unable and unwilling to face the forthcoming confrontation.

 

A hand reaches up to squeeze the nape of his neck, before Sam gets up to turn on the bedside lamp and starts fussing with the kettle on the table behind the bed. Steve focuses on his breathing and the comforting sound of the water boiling.

 

Sometime later, a mug is deposited on the bedside table and a weight settles at the foot of his bed. Steve gathers the strength to push himself upward, rubbing at the burning in his eyes, before reaching for the mug. Sam is watching him, over the rim of his mug and Steve avoids his eyes, focusing on the hot mug of tea instead.

 

“I woke you up.” Steve winces at the raspyness of his voice, taking another sip of hot tea, letting it sooth the burn.

 

Sam just shrugs noncommittally, and continues sipping his tea and watching. After a few moments, Steve starts talking just to fill the silence.

“

I get nightmares. Of Bucky.”

 

Sam nods.

 

“I don’t know…what am I going to say to him, Sam? Most nights I can barely sleep at all and the only thing that’s been driving me forward is the notion that I have to find him. But what if he doesn’t want to be found? What if wants nothing to do with me? And how can I help him, when I’m barely keeping myself together?”

 

Sam takes another sip of his tea.

 

“Tomorrow we go back to D.C.” Sam finally says. “We’ll contact Agent Hill and your friend Stark, while waiting for Natasha to return. We’ll go through the files again; see if there’s anything we missed. And…I’ll give you the number of my therapist.” Steve opens his mouth to protest, but Sam cuts him off.

 

“You either go or you don’t. But I need you to realize that this,” he gestures to the space between them “is beyond my expertise.” then, softer “There’s no shame in asking for help, Steve.”

 

“I don’t want to burden you more than I already have-”

 

“That’s not what I meant at all.” Sam frowns. “I’m with you, no matter what and I trust you to realize what that means. But I can’t protect you from yourself, only you can do that. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes.” It’s hard to say, but Steve knows that what Sam is saying is the truth; he can’t keep going on this way anymore.

 

“We’re not giving up on Bucky, okay? We’re just taking a break to regroup.” Sam looks so worried now that Steve just has to crack a smile.

 

“Alright.” Steve sets the now empty mug on the nightstand. “I’m sorry for waking you up in the first place. Things were very bad tonight.”

 

“I get that. But don’t think I haven’t caught you getting up every night since we started this. I’m surprised you’re still standing.” Sam reaches out to put the mug on the floor, before settling more comfortably at the foot of the bed, sticking his feet under Steve’s covers.

 

“Wait…you’re staying here? On my bed?”

 

“Yep.” Sam grins. “The pillow was too soft anyway. Now go to sleep.”

 

“But…”

 

“Shhhh…no talking, just sleeping. I’ll still be right here when you wake up.”

 

Steve gets back under the covers after turning off the lights, still somewhat confused as to what Sam thinks he’s doing. Still, it’s kind of nice, knowing that there’s no need to be constantly aware, because Sam can wake you if the nightmares come back. Their feet are warm next to each other under the covers and Steve feels his eyes slowly sliding shut. He sleeps on till morning for the first time.

 

When he wakes up, Sam is exactly where he left him, looking up blearily from his book. He insists that Steve drives the whole way back, while he naps in the car and he only complains about his back like five times. Steve lets him. He hasn’t felt so refreshed in weeks.

 

*

 

_Sometimes, it’s not Bucky falling, arm outstretched and mouth open in a silent scream as he disappears into the darkness. It’s Natasha, her red hair a splash of blood against the snow, or Peggy, with wrinkles beneath the red lipstick._

_It’s Jones and Morita with cuts and bruises, or Dum Dum in an explosion of fire. Sometimes, it’s Stark disappearing into a hole in the sky or Fury’s broken body._

_Those nights, he wakes up and makes himself a cup of tea. He drinks it and watches the city outside, until his hands stop shaking and he can return to bed._

_*_

They move back to Washington D.C.

 

Steve doesn’t remember them ever having a conversation about him moving in, but they must have, because he finds himself sorting out what little belongings he has left onto the empty spaces on Sam’s shelves. It seems like one day he’s barely left his fully packed duffle bag on Sam’s couch, and the other, his stuff has become their stuff.

 

At that time, it doesn’t seem so unusual, because Steve’s apartment is still marked with yellow tape and Sam has a spare room with a perfectly functional mattress, and it’s not like they haven’t been living on top of each other for the past few months. Still, the sight of Sam in his own space, surrounded by knick-knacks from trips abroad and drawings of his nieces, and grumbling over morning coffee leaves Steve dumbfounded and speechless. Thankfully, it’s nothing that can’t be explained by general morning drowsiness and Sam usually doesn’t notice Steve awkwardly hovering in the doorway to the kitchen, watching him cuss out the coffee machine, the morning sunshine highlighting the muscles in his arms.

 

However, Steve is nothing if not adaptable and Sam is a good host, so soon enough he feels more comfortable in the cramped little apartment that he’d ever been in the spacious SHIELD issue apartment. At least nobody is listening on him here, with all the frequent sweeps Sam does when he can’t sleep.

 

That’s another thing Steve is slowly beginning to become aware of, now that they aren’t constantly on the move; Sam has patterns he falls into when he’s in a comfortable space. He periodically sweeps the apartment for listening devices. He checks all the locks at night before they go to sleep. There’s a knife in a drawer by the bed and a gun in a safe in the kitchen. The rooms are under an alarm system that only Sam and Steve know the code to.

 

It makes Steve feel oddly safe, to see the focus and care Sam puts into their safety. He makes sure that Steve and his shield aren’t the only defense they have and Steve is grateful for it.

 

They’d been living together for a few weeks, when Sam’s obnoxious bird chirping doorbell sounds. It’s unusual, because they don’t usually get a lot of visitors, preferring to keep the apartment as their safe space, so they both tense up and Steve touches the shield where it’s hanging in the hallway as he pads past it to the door.

 

A look through the peephole reveals a very familiar face.

 

“Hawkeye! Are you alright?”

 

Clint looks anything but alright, dark bruises around his eyes, a busted lip and his hand drawn into a sling. He looks bone-tired and Steve reaches out to steady him as Sam appears in the hall behind him.

 

“Hey, Cap. I’ve got a mutual friend waiting in the car, but she’s probably gonna need some help walking. Sorry to drop in on you like this, but we’re kind of short on safehouses at the moment.”

 

Steve turns to Sam, eyebrow raised in enquiry, only to realize that Sam’s already got his medical kit and is waiting for him to move so he can get to the car.

 

“How bad is she hurt?” is the only question Sam asks throughout the whole process of moving an unconscious Natasha into the apartment and onto the couch, carefully reapplying stitches and anesthetic.

 

When she’s settled in, Sam monitoring her breathing, the whole story spills out from Clint, who looks almost vulnerable sitting in a nest of blankets by Natasha’s head.

 

Apparently, Clint had been on a mission in deep cover and the fall of SHIELD had left him without support, especially once it became clear that his handler was a Hydra agent. He’d been stuck somewhere in Siberia, running from his pursuers and trying desperately to send a message to Natasha. He’d finally managed to come through, unfortunately right before he’d been captured and bound.

 

Natasha appeared not long after that to bust him out and got shot in the process. Now, they were here, because it was the only address she could think of, feverish and delirious from her wounds.

 

Not long after that, Clint drifts off into a fitful sleep in his blanket nest, despite having been offered Steve’s bed. Sam leaves for bed next, checking the bandages again, touching a hand briefly to Steve’s shoulder before he goes.

 

“Wake me if anything changes, okay?”

 

“Yeah. Thanks, Sam.” When Steve says it, he already knows that it’s not enough, never enough to thank Sam for taking them all in, without questions and letting them lick their wounds in a safe place. He rests his cheek briefly on Sam’s hand and hopes he understands anyway.

 

“Well, this is cozy.” Natasha says from the couch. “Can’t say much about the décor, but I guess that’s to be expected with the two of you.”

 

Sam rushes to prop up her pillows and offer her a drink of water, while Steve tries to unsuccessfully hide his blush.

 

“We can go furniture shopping when you get better, okay?” Steve smiles and get’s a weak smirk in return. “Welcome back.”

 

And just like that, Sam’s apartment gets a lot more cramped.

 

Sam and Clint get along almost dangerously well, sharing a love for bird puns and high places. Steve and Natasha develop a secret language of hand gestures and eyerolls with twenty different variations of the phrase ‘birdbrained idiots’.

 

Natasha sleeps on the couch and keeps complaining about the color scheme, but is a surprisingly good patient otherwise. This might be due to Clint tracking her every move, from where he’s still sleeping on the floor in an increasingly bigger pile of blankets.

 

Also, Natasha keeps giving him exasperated looks whenever he and Sam separate to sleep in different rooms, and Steve doesn’t know what to make of that.

 

It takes a few weeks for Natasha to recover, but when she does, she and Clint move into an apartment not far from theirs, and come over for dinner almost every evening. Clint says it’s because they miss them, but Steve has a sneaking suspicion that they just can’t cook.

 

Steve knows that Natasha is still tracking Bucky, much like he is. They don’t talk about it, but he knows that when the time comes to face Bucky, she’ll be by his side.

 

In the meantime there are family dinners, where Sam cooks (Steve peels the potatoes) and Clint and Natasha bring the wine and the occasional stray dog. Natasha stops setting him up on dates, but that’s probably because she knows him well enough to tell when he has an eye on someone.

 

*

 

_Sometimes, Sam is the one who’s falling, the wings trailing him in a twisted mess of steel and fire, eyes closed as if in sleep. In those dreams, Steve calls Sam’s name over and over, trying to get him to open his eyes, until he disappears in the whiteness._

_Those nights, he always ends up at the door of Sam’s room, watching his chest rise and fall until his own breathing calms down._

_*_

The first week of October brings rain and bruising winds to Washington. Sam grows quiet, when he watches the leaves fall. He barely eats or sleeps, and he’s always tired. Steve worries.

 

“I just hate the cold.” He says when Steve asks. “And the rain.”

 

And it does seem like Sam is constantly cold, bundling up in thick jackets, fluffy scarves and hats. He tucks his cold feet under Steve’s thighs when they watch movies and Steve reaches down to grip his ankle when he starts to get shy about it.

 

At night, Steve hears him walking around the apartment, checking the locks up to fifty times, before settling on the couch to stare blankly at infomercials until morning. Steve hears him having nightmares, but when he knocks on his door, he finds it locked.

 

Sam gets snappish, annoyed at the slightest provocation. He refuses to leave the apartment, huddling in a nest of blankets and pillows on the couch. He flinches, when Steve touches him.

 

It all comes to a head one night, when there’s a big storm outside, with thunder and lightning and pouring rain. Steve can’t sleep and he hears Sam get up and head into the living room. He hears him pacing. Usually, he calms down after a few minutes, but not tonight, the steady back and forth of his footsteps punctuated by the occasional crash of thunder.

 

Steve finds him at the living room window, watching the rain as if hypnotized. The safe is open and in the semi-darkness, he can see the gun is missing.

 

“Sam?” he calls out, carefully moving closer. “Are you alright?”

 

Sam swings around, wild-eyed and obviously startled, gun held loosely in his hands. He’s shaking all over and as if on cue, lighting strikes and illuminates the tense line of his body.

 

“Sam.” Steve continues moving closer, telegraphing each movement. “What are you doing with the gun out?”

 

“I need to protect us.” Sam’s breathing is erratic and Steve can see his eyes darting around, looking for escape.

 

“Protect us from who, Sam?”

 

“ _Them._ ” He jerks his head to the window. “Don’t you hear the gunfire? It’s just a matter of time, until they start dropping bombs. The base is burning. They’re coming for us.” Sam licks his lips “I need to find Riley.”

 

“Sam…”

 

“No. Riley is gone. He’s gone, isn’t he? An RPG hit him.” Sam hits the gun against the table with a bang. “It hit him and he burned and I can still feel the flames.”

 

“Sam, give me the gun.”

 

“I couldn’t protect him. I let him fall. But I’ll protect you.” Another crack of thunder. “Do you hear the bombs? It never ends. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

 

“Sam.” Steve’s at arms length now, keeping his voice low and calming. “Sam, I need you to give me that gun, okay? We’re safe, I promise you, we’re fine. Nobody is going to hurt us.”

 

And it’s like a switch flips. “Steve?”

 

“It’s me, you’re okay, we’re both okay. Now give me the gun.”

 

Sam hands it over with trembling fingers, and then snatches his hands away as if burned. Steve checks the safety and unloads the chamber, before placing the gun back in its place and closing the safe.

 

Then, he turns back to the huddled figure by the window, flinching and trembling harder with every crack of thunder, and he opens his arms.

 

“C’mon.”  and Sam does.

 

He clutches at Steve’s back like a lifeline, muffling great, heaving sobs against his neck. Steve clings back just as strongly, murmuring inane comforting phrases against Sam’s hair, until the storm outside eases and Sam stops trembling. Finally, he speaks; face still hidden in the crook of Steve’s neck.

 

“Did I hurt you?”

 

“No, Sam, no, you didn’t hurt me, you were trying to protect me.” Sam’s body sags in relief and Steve takes on more of his weight, until he’s practically holding both of them upward.

 

“I can’t even protect you from myself.”

 

“I don’t need protecting from you.” Sam snorts in disbelief and Steve pulls back to look at him. “Sam, I know you’d never hurt me. It’s alright.”

 

“I was holding a gun!”

 

“But you weren’t aiming it at me. I know you, Sam Wilson, I know what kind of man you are and I know that you’d never hurt me.”

 

Sam takes a shaky breath, pushing in closer again. Steve waits a few minutes, before he carefully maneuvers them over to the couch, wrapping them in a blanket, all the while never removing his hands from Sam.

 

They stay like that for what feels like hours, before Sam speaks.

 

“I’ve never liked storms. Bad flying weather.” He chuckles weakly before continuing, voice softer. “You know, Riley died on a night like this. The storm was the reason we didn’t hear them coming, until it was already too late. It was the anniversary of his death today.”

 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

“I thought I could handle it.” Sam huffs out a bitter laugh. “Apparently not.”

 

“You do know that if Captain America asks you for help, it’s also implied that you can ask for help back, right?”

 

“There’s nothing to ask. You can’t protect me against the monsters in my head, Cap.”

 

“No. Only you can do that, remember? That doesn’t mean you need to do it alone. Let me help?”

 

Sam moves closer still, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder. His “Okay.” is almost muffled by the blanket.

 

“I got your shirt all wet.”

 

“That’s okay. I’ve got others.”

 

“I don’t know, I think you shrunk them all in the wash last week.”

 

They stay like that till morning and after breakfast, Sam finally calls his therapist.

 

Steve goes with him to the appointment and waits in the waiting room until he finishes. By the time Sam walks out, shaky and pale, but smiling, Steve has already made his own appointment.

 

No more excuses. Sam needed him. Bucky needed him. And Steve couldn’t help either of them without first helping himself.

 

*

_Sometimes, he dreams that he’s the one falling, and a hand grips his own to slow his descent._

_Sometimes, he’s drowning and someone grips his straps to haul him up._

 

_Sometimes, he’s not afraid or gasping for air._

_Those nights are the worst._

*

 

Steve goes to his therapist appointments. At first, it’s hard to talk, hard to lay himself bare in front of someone else, but the more he talks, the easier it gets, until the words are pouring out of him like crashing waves, hungry to be out in the open after so long.

 

For the first time since that day on the train, someone tells him it’s not his fault that Bucky fell and he almost believes them. Almost. He’s getting there.

 

Sam always picks him up after his appointments and drives them home to a delicious dinner of Steve’s favorite foods that somehow manages to fill his shaky limbs back up with warmth.

 

Clint and Natasha still come to dinner, bringing wine and encrypted files with blurry pictures of Bucky’s silhouette. He’s got his own agenda and he’s not ready to be found. Steve understands that now. He just has to wait for him to be ready and hopes that when the time comes, he has the right words to say.

 

One day, Sam comes home from work with a brightly colored flyer advertising art classes at the Veteran center. He pins it to their fridge, so Steve sees it every time he comes to the kitchen.

 

In the end, he takes it down to tuck between the pages of his sketchbook and signs up.

 

Sam takes him shopping at an art supplies store to celebrate. Instead of picking up his usual graphite and coal, Steve stops in front of the colored pencils. He buys the brightest he can find.

 

That afternoon, he finally draws Sam they way he’d always seen him in his head, coloring in the bright feathers into vibrant plumage. After he finishes, he traces the edges of the wings with his fingers and the color comes off bright red on his skin.

 

Sam is singing along to the radio in the kitchen, probably making them dinner and Steve feels at peace for the first time in what feels like a century.

 

He gets up, leaving the sketchbook on the couch, and walks to the kitchen, where he kisses Sam amidst the steaming pots and pans.

 

They burn dinner.

 

“It took you long enough.” is all Natasha says, before grabbing Clint and the wine, and leaving them to their privacy.

 

*

_Sometimes, he dreams about falling and he lands on his own two feet, shield vibrating with the impact._

_Sometimes, he breaks the surface of the water to fill his lungs with air, keeping afloat easily._

_On those nights, he wakes up smiling before pressing a kiss against Sam’s shoulder where the sheet has slipped down and moves to cuddle closer._

_Sam always wakes up just enough to grumble about Steve giving off too much heat, before quieting down. Steve counts his heartbeats against his own, ducking to hide his grin into the crook of Sam’s neck. He sleeps on peacefully till morning._

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://jjjat3am.tumblr.com/)! I'd love to talk.


End file.
